‘Great, Donal. She’s been great now. I took her out this morning at six to loosen her up and she was flying so she was. I tell you, we’ll be winning big-time today. I feel it so I do.’
‘Woo-hoo,’ whooped Donal, thumping the steering wheel. ‘Come on, the Blackie.’
Blackie – excited by the whooping – threw herself and her wet, mucky paws into the front seat on top of Lucy and her cashmere jumper. Lucy stared down at the balls of delicate wool wedged between Blackie’s filthy paws. She silently cursed Donal and his stupid mutt.
They drove on, then took a sharp turn left into the middle of a muddy field that was jam-packed with cars, dogs and people in wellington boots and wind-cheaters. Lucy looked at Donal. ‘Please tell me this isn’t it? This isn’t the venue. Where’s the racetrack? Where’s the bar?’
‘There’s no track in coursing. This isn’t greyhound racing, it’s coursing,’ said Donal, looking confused.
‘But you said we were going to the dogs,’ said Lucy, panicking at the thought of spending the day knee deep in mud.
‘Yeah, the dogs. Greyhound coursing is the dogs. Come on, you’ll have fun. It’s a great day out.’
Donal got out of the car and caught up with Jimmy and Blackie, who were already mingling with the other owners and trading odds with the bookies.
Lucy sat in the car and tried to breathe deeply. She was in the back-end of Tipperary, in the middle of a mucky field, wearing nine-hundred-euro Prada boots. There had to be a clubhouse or bar of some sort. She climbed out of the car and tottered after Donal, her heels sinking further into the wet grass with each step. She felt like a complete idiot. All the other women there were wearing wellies, jeans, chunky jumpers and rainproof jackets.
The group Donal was talking to turned to stare at her as she stumbled towards them. ‘Hi,’ she said, smiling brightly. ‘Can someone please tell me where the nearest toilet is?’
An attractive woman of about her own age – dressed in appropriate clothes for coursing – who had been talking to Donal when Lucy hobbled over, turned to her and said, ‘Of course. You go straight up the hill and – you see that big tree there? Well, if you go behind it you’ll find a beautiful marble bathroom with fluffy pink towels and a woman to wipe your arse.’
Everyone, including Donal, roared laughing as Lucy stood, lop-sided – one heel sunk further than the other – going a deep shade of scarlet. She smiled, tried to come up with a witty retort, but was too humiliated to think straight. She turned round and limped away, their laughter ringing in her ears.
She stumbled back to the car, cursing her boots, her jacket, the weather, and Donal for bringing her to this Godforsaken place. She sat back into the car and tried not to cry when she saw her reflection in the mirror. She was trying to smooth down her hair and wipe away the mascara, which was lying in streaks down her cheeks giving her a distinct look of Ozzy Osbourne, when Donal appeared at the window. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Do I look OK? I’m in the middle of a field in the lashing rain. I ask a simple question and suddenly I’m the joke of the county. Thanks a lot for sticking up for me back there. Who is that cow, anyway?’
‘Ah, don’t mind her. That’s just Mary’s way.’
‘Charming. How do you know her?’
‘We went out a while back.’
Great, thought Lucy. The good-looking blonde was his ex. And, worse, she was one of those outdoorsy girls who don’t wear makeup but always look lovely. Their cheeks are always flushed from brisk country walks and they always have their hair tied back with little wispy bits falling gently on to their fresh faces. ‘I see. Any other exes I should be aware of?’
‘No,’ said Donal, smiling at her. ‘Now, do you need to pee?’
‘Yes, badly.’
‘OK, follow me,’ he said, taking her by the hand and leading her away from the mass of people.
He brought her to a Portaloo, which was hidden behind a hedge. It was smelly and filthy – but at least I don’t have to squat behind a tree, thought Lucy, as she hovered over the toilet rim. When she came out, she looked down at her boots, which were now covered in urine as well as muck. ‘God, I must look like an idiot in these,’ she said.
‘A right eejit.’
‘Thanks for rubbing it in.’
‘The way I see it, you have two choices here. You can either stay in the car for the day, or put on a pair of my old runners and a rugby jersey and get stuck in.’
‘If I had a book to read, I’d opt for the car, but I don’t so show me the runners.’
They went back to the car and Donal rummaged around in the boot. Finally he pulled out an ancient pair of trainers and a crumpled rugby jersey, which reached Lucy’s knees.
She put them on and turned round. ‘Well, how do I look?’
‘Like a supermodel. Now, come on, I need to focus on the race,’ said Donal, grabbing her hand and dragging her back down. He introduced her to a few people – including the dreaded Mary, who ignored her – and went off to find Jimmy and Blackie. Lucy quietly asked the friendly-looking man, Liam, beside her what went on during a race.
‘Well, d’you see, there are two dogs competing against each other in every race. The slipper there – he’s the fella that holds the dogs back until the hare has a good head start of about eighty yards – releases the dogs to chase the hare. When the dogs catch up with the hare, he has to twist and turn to get away from them. Points are then given by the judge – you can see him over there on the horse – to each dog, depending on how they coped with turning the hare.’
‘Do they not have to catch the hare? Do they kill it? Isn’t that really cruel?’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, lads, we have one of those city girls with a bleeding heart here,’ said Mary loudly. ‘She’ll probably start crying about the poor little ‘‘bunny rabbits’’ in a minute. Where did Donal find you at all?’
Lucy glared at her, but was determined not to get caught up in a slagging match. She didn’t want to turn into a fishwife yet. She’d leave that for later, when she’d really let Mary have it. ‘As I was saying, do they catch the hare?’
‘The object is not to kill the hare but to test the dogs against each other. Are you with me?’ said Liam. ‘The dogs only chase by sight, so once the hare escapes they pull up and it’s over. The judge awards points to decide which dog won. And that winner will go on to run against the winner of another heat and so on.’
Lucy wasn’t quite sure what was going on. How could you judge a dog on how it made a hare turn? It seemed very odd. Suddenly everyone rushed forward to the edge of the coursing field – spectators were not allowed inside it – as Blackie’s name was called.
Bookies offered last-minute odds and cash changed hands quicker than lightning. Blackie was to race against a fierce-looking dog called Bootsy; she was given a red collar and stood to the left with Donal and Jimmy. Bootsy was given a white collar and stood to the right with his owner. Then the slipper appeared, put the two dogs on a special leash and brought them into the coursing field. The hare was released from a cage at the side of the field and after a few seconds the slipper let the dogs go.
Lucy shouted, ‘Come on, Blackie!’ and everyone in the place turned to glare at her.
‘Pathetic,’ muttered Mary, under her breath.
Nobody spoke or moved a muscle as the two dogs tore off after the hare, darting this way and that. Forty seconds later it was over. Everyone peered at the judge to see what colour handkerchief he had raised. It was red. Now everyone (except Lucy, who was afraid to open her mouth) cheered and slapped Donal and Jimmy on the back. Mary rushed forward to give Donal a lingering kiss and fuss over Blackie, who had run back looking very pleased with herself.
Thank God it’s over, thought Lucy. At least we can go now. The drizzle had made her hair curl up into frizzy wisps and one of Donal’s runners had a hole in the sole, so her right sock was soaking. Donal came over to her, beaming like a kid. ‘Wasn’t she great? Did you have a bet on?’
>
‘No, I completely forgot. I got caught up in trying to understand the rules. Never mind, let’s go and celebrate.’
‘Good idea,’ said Donal, heading to the car. Lucy trotted after him, delighted at the prospect of a cosy country pub with a log fire. Donal opened the boot and tossed her a can of beer. ‘Cheers. Here’s to the next race.’
‘What next race?’
‘The next race against the winner of this one.’
‘You mean it’s not over?’ said Lucy, feeling utterly dejected.
‘Not at all. If she does well we’ll have two more to go. Fingers crossed. Cheers,’ he said, knocking back his beer.
Lucy was about to say she’d had enough and was going to take the car, book into a nice hotel, have a long soak in a bubble bath, and would meet up with him later, when Mary bounded over. ‘I’ll have one of those, thanks,’ she said, pointing to Lucy’s beer. ‘Well, did you hear this one shouting during the race? She was nearly asked to leave by the steward. I was mortified for her.’
‘Ah, sure it’s Lucy’s first time. She’ll get used to it,’ said Donal, winking at the rain-sodden Lucy.
‘I dunno about that, Donal. Some girls aren’t made for coursing and I think this one would be more comfortable in a five-star hotel.’
‘This one,’ said Lucy, trying not to lose her temper, ‘is standing right here in front of you. And I would appreciate it if you didn’t talk about me as if I wasn’t here.’
‘Ooh, now, no need to be so touchy. Very sensitive, are we?’
‘No, Mary. Not sensitive, just civilized. Maybe if you spent less time in fields with dogs you could work on your social skills.’
‘Donal,’ said Mary, hands on hips glaring at him, ‘are you going to let her speak to me like that?’
‘If you dish it out, Mary, you have to be able to take it,’ said Donal, grinning at Lucy as Mary stormed off.
‘Come on, you city slicker. Two more races to go and then we’ll go somewhere nice to celebrate and dry off.’
Lucy smiled at him. Suddenly the rain and muck didn’t seem so bad. Blackie won the next race but lost in the final to an outsider called Bosco. There were murmurings that Bosco’s trainer might have slipped him some steroids. Apparently he had doubled in size in a year, but no one could prove it, so Bosco and his trainer Benny Kean won the cup and made a killing from the bookie. Donal ended up winning a thousand euro, which he split with Jimmy. Everyone was heading to the local pub for celebration drinks, but as they were driving out Donal turned left instead of right like everyone else.
‘Where are we going?’ asked Lucy.
‘As a reward for being a good sport in the rain all day, I’m taking you to the Sanderson Hotel in Tipperary for a hot bath, dinner, drinks and, hopefully, if I get you drunk enough, a night of passion.’
And that was exactly what happened . . .
24
I began to take the clomiphene and, having eagerly swallowed the first tablet, I decided to read the accompanying leaflet. It described the possible side-effects of the drug which included ovarian hyperstimulation and enlargement, possible rupture, visual disturbances, hot flushes, abdominal discomfort, nausea and vomiting, depression, insomnia, weight gain, rashes, dizziness and hair loss. I stared at it in shock. OMG, I was going to be bald, sweaty, fat and depressive.
I rang Mr Reynolds in a panic. He assured me that these were extreme side-effects that rarely – if ever – affected his patients and especially not on the low dose of fifty milligrams that he had started me on.
Feeling calmer, I decided to throw out the information leaflet in case James found it. I knew he’d make me come off the drugs immediately if he read those symptoms. I’d wait until he found a clump of my hair on the pillow before I went into any explanations. For the next four days I took my drugs, and later, on day nine, I went into the clinic for my first follicle-tracking examination.
Once again I found myself naked from the waist down, flat on my back with my legs akimbo. The male radiologist, Tom, was young, fit and extremely good-looking, which made it all even more uncomfortable. When I’m embarrassed I tend to overcompensate by talking incessantly in an over-cheery manner. So, when Tom began explaining the procedure to me I kept interrupting him with crummy lines. It was pathetic.
‘As you are no doubt aware, follicle-tracking scans will show us if the ovaries are functioning correctly. With these scans we can –’
‘Oh, I see, yes. Come on, the eggs, come on, the Easter bunny, ha-ha . . .’
He looked at me, smiled without smiling, and continued ‘– track the size of the follicles in the ovary over several days to predict timing of ovulation and advise you of the optimal time for conception.’
‘Will I have to bring my husband with me next time so we can get to it immediately in the broom cupboard, ha-ha-ha?’
It was awful. I knew I was making a fool of myself, but I couldn’t control it. I was just so nervous.
Tom was a real pro and once again continued his flow as though I had never interrupted him. ‘We’ll also be measuring the thickness of the womb lining. This gives an indication of egg quality and likelihood of a successful pregnancy.’
He then took a big tube of lubricant jelly and squidged a lump of it over the top of one of those large vibrator-type things and inserted it into my vagina. The bad Tommy Cooper impressions ended there and then. I was shocked into silence.
A computer screen was turned towards me and as Tom twisted the camera thing inside my uterus, he began clicking furiously with the mouse, dragging measuring lines across the screen and printing out little black photos. All I could see was a big black mass with the occasional black blob. He was intent on measuring any black blobs that appeared on the screen.
After about five minutes of frenzied measuring, clicking and printing, the camera was taken out and I was handed a tissue by the nurse to wipe away the lubricant while Tom politely turned his back.
Once I was dressed, Tom sat me down and began showing me the printouts. They were small, dark and blurry. I had no idea what I was looking at. ‘You can see here,’ he said, pointing to a cluster of blobs, ‘that the follicles appear to be similar in size. When one grows significantly bigger than the others, we can be confident that you’re ovulating and an egg will be released. It’s too soon to tell with your follicles yet. I’ll make an appointment for you to come back in two days’ time.’
‘What if in two days’ time I still have no big one?’
‘It could mean that you’re ovulating later in your cycle or that you’re not ovulating at all. We won’t know until we’ve tracked you a few more times this cycle.’
‘What if I don’t ovulate?’
‘Well, then, Mr Reynolds will probably increase the dosage of clomiphene.’
Great – more drugs. I’d be a fat, sweaty baldy in no time. So much for the sex: James wouldn’t want to go near me.
Two days later I was back in the clinic and a different radiologist was doing the same test. I had to answer the same questions about how long I’d been trying to get pregnant and how long I’d been taking clomiphene.
‘Where’s Tom?’ I asked
‘We rotate,’ said Judy, the new radiologist. ‘There are three of us so we do different days each week. Now, tell me, what dosage of clomiphene are you taking?’
When she had all my details she inserted the ultrasound camera and we stared at the screen. No big blobs. She made an appointment for me to come back in two days’ time on day thirteen of my cycle.
Two days later I went through the same process with Liz, the third radiologist. We went over the same questions and again stared at a screen with no obvious big blobs appearing. I was told to come back in two days’ time – on day fifteen – to see if I was ovulating later in my cycle. On day fifteen it was Judy again and there were still no big blobs.
‘I’m afraid, Emma, it doesn’t look like you’re going to ovulate this month. I’ll send a report to Mr Reynolds and he’ll discuss y
our options with you.’
I left the clinic feeling despondent. What the hell was wrong with me? Why couldn’t my stupid ovaries produce eggs? How come everyone in the world was able to get pregnant except me? Was I barren and they just couldn’t figure out why? Was it ever going to happen? Should I just hang up my boots and pack it all in?
When I got home a package was waiting for me. It was a box with Dutch stamps on it. I didn’t remember ordering anything. Maybe it was a present from James.
I opened the box and unwrapped the gift. It was a large pink bunny rabbit with beads . . . Oh, my God, it was a vibrator! I looked at the message inside the box: ‘To brighten up your sex life. Sorry for calling you barren at Christmas. Babs.’
I had never been one of those modern women who had vibrators in their bedside lockers. I suppose I had always had some kind of boyfriend/loser on the scene, and thus a fairly regular sex life so I had never felt the urge. My pre-trying-for-a-baby sex life with James had been extremely active, frisky and fun – we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. We didn’t need battery-operated devices: we were doing just fine using the equipment God had given us.
Mind you, I’d been tempted to try a vibrator after Lucy told me that hers gave her better results than any man she had slept with. This one was called the Rampant Rabbit Pearl Vibrator. I switched it on and giggled as the little beads spun round and the rabbit ears vibrated. The promotional leaflet claimed:
There is a good reason that this is the most popular sex toy in the world, just ask any woman who has one. A long thick jelly-finish shaft, vibrating, rotating pearls, multispeed vibration and the soft bunny ears to tease the clitoris – it’s fantastic.
I hid it in my wardrobe. After all my internal tests, I couldn’t face inserting anything else inside me for the time being, but maybe at a later date . . .
Having analysed the tests, Mr Reynolds decided to increase my dose of clomiphene to 100 milligrams. I went for four more internal ultrasounds and still no big blobs appeared. A month later my dosage was increased to 150 milligrams – still nothing, so it went up to 200 milligrams. I could now feel the side-effects.
The Baby Trail: How far would you go to have a baby? (The Baby Trail Series (USA) Book 1) Page 17